The evening came, soft and sweet as July evenings are. Angela had been busy all day long and had seen Isabey only at the three-o’clock dinner. But the consciousness that she was in sound of his voice was like wine in her veins. In the afternoon she dressed herself carefully in a fresh white gown and went out upon the lawn. Her afternoons were usually spent on the lawn and in the old garden, which was now in its glory. All was a wealth of bloom and perfume. She remained in the garden thinking, hoping, fearing, and believing that Isabey would seek her there. When the shadows grew long and the sun hung low behind the purple woods he came to her. She was standing before a great bed of hollyhocks which flaunted their merry faces boldly in the soft air. “How changed it is since we were last in this garden!” Isabey said; “but I am not changed;” and then cursed himself for having been betrayed into something dangerously near to sentiment. Angela, as the case had ever been, passed with proud unconsciousness over his words. “The garden has not gone back this year as much as one would think,” she said, moving toward the broad main walk. “As you know, we have only two or three small boys to work it now, but it is so old and so well conducted that it seems impossible for it to become wild or irregular.” They walked up and down the garden path a few times, and Angela gathered some of the July roses, those princesses of the garden. Isabey spoke with impatience of his being still unable to rejoin his battery and called the surgeons fools for not curing his arm quickly. Then, in an unguarded moment, he spoke of the delicious hours of those snowbound days six months before. Angela said little, but Isabey saw the quick rising and falling of her fast-beating heart. Presently they went back to the house and soon supper was served. At table the conversation turned upon Colonel Gratiot, then on duty at the camp of instruction, whom Colonel Tremaine had known as a brother officer during the Mexican War. “Gratiot is sixty years old, if he is a day,” complained Colonel Tremaine bitterly, “and always was a puny fellow; yet he can serve his country, while I, who never knew a day’s illness in my life and can stand twelve hours in the saddle as well as I ever could----” “And can wind a whole hank of cotton in three hours,” interjected Archie, laughing. “--am not permitted to serve my country because I am too old! I wish you would say to Gratiot for me that I should be very pleased to renew my acquaintance with him, and perhaps he may be able to come down and spend a day and night with me, the infernal Yankees permitting.”